The Ants Go Marching By
by Owliet
Summary: AU — "It's only every other day that you find someone dying in an alleyway; and never an Irken, Gaz," Dib scowled, pointing at the tiny, green alien curled up on the couch.
1. Prologue

**disclaimer: **I don't own _Invader Zim_.  
**warnings:** language, violence.

**A/N:** Because all the good jokes were taken. (;

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**The Ants Go Marching By  
****Prologue  
**Stray

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**A**s all things would have it, higher powers not withstanding, it started off as a fairly—well to be blunt, this isn't a _normal_ thing to begin with—_standard_ day for the human meat-child named Dib. Dib Membrane, son of this hoity-toity, super_fab_ulous REAL scientist man, and a test tube. But totally not in the sexual way. Like, he's a clone, and not that the test tube was his mother or anything stupid like that. Well. Technically. But I digress, and continue on with this appaling narration: it started off as a _standard_ day. Beginning with the morning routine, which consisted of being smacked in the face by the alarm clock (via space-monkey), and screamed at by his less than nice sister. Who, on a daily basis, would threaten to do various things to him such as ripping out his intestines, poking his eyes out, castration: the usual.

He would then proceed to search around for his glasses, which often ended up on the floor, and he didn't quite understand with all the 'advanced' technology out there, that they couldn't cure bad vision. It was just his luck, was the final assumption after hours of contemplation one night while staring at a lamp. Just his luck. Then after rolling out of bed, untangling himself from the devil sheets, he would pick out some random clothes, and head into his bathroom for a quick shower. And then it was breakfast. Normally a bowl of nondescript cereal with cute, little marshmallows of happy faces and sad faces. Sometimes eggs if he was feeling up to it. Or if he didn't really feel like anything, then it was a bannana. Potasium. Yum.

Then—oh, oh, maybe I should start using other words, hmmm? Like 'next' or.. or.. 'then'! (the thesauras ran away)—he would watch the news for a half an hour before it was time to get on the bus. One year left of being bullied on the bus, and he would be free to go to college or something. Get an aircar. Because his dad was still a jackass, despite being rich, and refused to get either of his kids transportation besides the old-fangled _bi_-cycle. Stingy creatures, parents are, yes. Yes, yes, where was I? The news. He would watch a half an hour of the dreaded news, listening to the weather reports, and the current murder story. This time it was about a man who had fourteen dead, decapitated women in his wall.

Yes, the world is full of freaks: get over it. At least _you_ won't be alone.

After that half an hour of depressing information, he would grab his bag and head out the front door with his sister in tow. Dib would take a deep breath of the purple air of Aeon-3, and make his way to the corner of the sidewalk, trying to not interrupt Gaz and her GameSlave. He would then wait for five minutes until the hoverbus arrived, and he would and his sister would take their spot in the first seat. He would stare out the window, and Gaz would play one of her thousands upon thousands of violent, disturbing video games. Today's choice was a good old-fashioned zombie slaying thing. Lots of helpless screaming came from the purple device.

Twenty-minutes and fifteen, squealing teenagers later, they would arrive at the High School™; where it was Dib's final year, and Gaz's junior year. He would sit through hours upon hours of arduous learning, the only break being lunch, when he sat amongst Gaz and her video-gaming friends. May their brains rot, and their thumbs be calloused.

Today was different, though. He decided to do something he rarely did; ditch. So at the start of lunch, he hid in the bathroom in the stall next to the door, and waited until the sounds in the halls passed before sneaking out. The security would be more focused on the cafeteria than the hallways, so he made it out and into the City™ with little to no hassle, except for that one security guard hanging around a classroom—but that had been easy to bypass with his _a_mazing ninja skills (honed after so many years running from Gaz). Free to wander aimlessly down the streets, he ignored the looks from the citizens who actually read the newspaper, and had read the occasional article about him instead of the ones about his dad.

It was easy to ignore them; too easy, but that's a concept for another day.

Instead, let's focus on Dib, and the fact that he noticed a rather ominous group of (snickering) Vortians crowded around a streetlight ahead; it wasn't that he had anything against the slim, gray aliens, it was just that, well. They scared the shit out of him when they were in clusters. Not as, well, much as _other_ species, but still. Ominous. Deciding it would be best to skirt around them, he slipped down an alleyway. He walked past the rusty cans, torn open trash bags, and the whimpering dumpster- _whimpering dumpster?_

"When did dumpsters start whimpering?" he muttered to no one, his nasty habit of speaking his thoughts aloud showing, and adjusted his glasses nervously. This was bad. Bad. Bad. A bad situation to be in, because of an unspoken rule in this City™: do not investigate. Anything. Not even if you saw a severed limb on the ground; you didn't do anything about it. Nothing. Nadda. Zip. Zilch. It _always_, always lead to bad things. Once it lead a woman to a nest of mutated spiders, which used her living carcass as a breeding ground for their eggs, and there was this other time that a Meekrob ended up trapped in a vase for fifty years.

Strange, scary things happened when you investigated.

So why was it that he was ignoring this unspoken, but helpful, rule? Curiosity. That horrible, evil thing was what lead him to investigate the strange, whimpering dumpster. He stood before the rusted, metal thing, trying to figure out where exactly the sound came from. It certainly didn't come from _inside_ the filthy container; considering that the sound was crisp, and clear. Albiet weakening by the second. So Dib came to the conclusion that the source of the whimper was coming from underneath (after all, how could it be behind the dumpster—there was a _wall_).

Preparing himself by pulling down his sleeves so that if the thing under there was going to bite him, it might be deterred by the taste of fabric. Not that the jacket sleeve would protect against most things. He got down on his knees and peered under the bin; but found there were a few trashbags in the way. Annoyed, he pulled the bags out of the way, and looked around in the darkness. What he saw made him gasp, and pull back in shock. It wasn't so—it simply couldn't be. Couldn't. It just didn't happen.

Curled up against the slimy wall was a diminuitive Irken: it was small, smaller than any Irken Dib had ever seen. _Hell_, he knew that most Irkens were pretty short, but he had never seen anything other than the average heighted ones (and once, the Tallest on the news). This Irken seemed to be about the size of the average house cat: from the way it was curled up, it reminded him of a cat. And the whimpering was _definitely_ coming from the green alien, now that he was close enough. But shocked him even more.

Ever since the 23/13 incident, no one messed with Irkens; not one. The poor sap who had dared mess with an Irken had ended up hanging from his toes, and fed to a creepy brain parasite. And the whole execution had been broadcasted across the universe. The message clear: don't fuck with the Irkens. Or _you_ will end up fucked.

Which ended up justifying his breaking the unspoken rule: he was helping an Irken, which probably, maybe, hopefully, equalled some form of reward. Like a rare chance at getting his hands on some Irken technology—oh, yes, _that_ justified the means. So he crawled under the bin just enough so that he could pull the alien out and cradle it in his arms. Once in the light, he was able to get a better look at the poor fellow. The damage was horrendous enough that he had to run his hands over Irken's PAK just to check if that wasn't damaged. Finding that it wasn't, he then took to assessing the rest of the damage.

Dib examined the head first: it was covered with discolorations that he took as bruises, one of the antennae was torn; a sort of tinted ooze seeping out of it. There were cuts and scratches around the tightly closed eyes, and one angry looking red mark on it's cheek. From what he could see through the alien's torn, pink shirt, there were bruises and cuts on the torso as well. All in all, the little guy was in a horrid state. He would need medical attention: but Dib was certain that the local clinic wouldn't have the capabilities of helping the Irken.

Which is how he ended up taking the Irken home.

In the fourty-five minutes that it took to walk home, the alien only stirred once, to whimper out in pained English mixed with a strange series of clicks, whistles and pops that Dib assumed was Irken. The English part was thus; "No, no... regret _it_, f_ilt_h..." Which, now that he thought about it, didn't really make much sense unless the Irken had been talking about his attackers, which made sense. Upon entering his house, he settled the Irken on the living room couch, then made his way to the bathroom where he collected gauze, medical tape, scissors, band-aids, and cooling gel. With his arms full of medical supplies, Dib set about patching the alien's injuries.

He was pleased to note that the legendary Irken regenerative abilities were working, as the bruises were less noticeable, and the torn antennae had repaired itself. Still, he covered, wrapped, and taped the open sores and wounds so that they wouldn't be exposed to any more bacteria than they already had been.

It just wouldn't do if the Irken got sick ontop of everything else.

"Argh," Dib started off his tangent with the uninteligible sound, before deciding it would be easier to speak his woes clearly, "I am _so_ dead, so, so screwed. What was I thinking? Gaz'll... I don't even wanna think about it. That'll make it worse, won't it?" He used the excuse that instead of talking to himself, he was talking to the alien, trying to get a lucid response or hoping that hearing voices might wake the fellow up. Angry or not.

When his 'plan' didn't work, he sighed in defeat and turned on the telly. Reality TV? _Nah._ A horror flick? _Nope._ Golf? _You're kidding, right?_ Cartoons? _Duh._ Settling in for a rousing rerun of _Courage, the Cowardly Dog_, he sat next to the small alien, to be extra careful just in case he woke up and freaked out. Dib really, really didn't want to see an Irken freakout: if the 23/13 incident was anything to go by... it would be scary.

A little _too_ scary for his tastes. So instead, he settled for glancing at the sleeping (or at least, he assumed it was sleep) alien every other commercial break. About fifteen half-hour showings of _Courage_ later, and he was interrupted from his steady routine by the door slamming open, and an oppressive aura suffocating the life out of the room. Even the alien had started shivering at his sister's evil-_ness_.

Gaz homed in on her brother like a shark smelling blood: and she saw the Irken, too. Her reaction was a bit _too_ subdued, and it felt like she hadn't yet decided on what she was going to do to him, when she ground out, "What is _that_ doing here?"

An Irken freakout might be scary, but a Gaz freakout was even scarier.

There were several ways this could have ended: Dib's death, Gaz having a sudden change of her black heart, or something equally lucky. Unfortunately for him, his genius response was, "Um." _Dammit_.

"Put _that_ back out on the street you found it, _now_," her tone was dangerously close to the breaking point, close to throwing both Dib and the alien out onto the street.

His answer was desperate: "It's only every other day that you find someone dying in an alleyway; and never an Irken, Gaz," Dib scowled, pointing at the tiny, green alien curled up on the couch. His sister followed his finger to look back at the alien, her own scowl deepening. But all of a sudden, as if knowing that it was in trouble, the PAK let out a loud _beep_, followed by a string of numbers.

"_System Reboot. Facilities Recovered. Memory Drive: 10% recovered._"

_And_ that is how the story starts.

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**A/N: **I'm almost positive I know where I'm going with this. Yes, the prologue's short. Boo-hoo. They're supposed to be. Like movie trailers. Or something like that. Long enough to have stuff in them, but not long enough to satisfy. _Yaaaayyy. _Also: formatting is a _bitch_. It refuses to let me do what I waaaanntttt and make it look purdy. So.. sad. They need some options where you can have different types of fonts, so that way, mechanical voices can have that mechanical feel. Seriously.

So, uh, if you liked it (ew) tell me. That'll _probably_ give me enough motivation to continue on with the first chapter. Seriously. (: Or not. No skin off my back.


	2. Act I: Part One

**disclaimer:** _Invader Zim_ belongs to someone other than me.  
**warnings:** language.

**A/N:** Whoa. That many reviews, in such a short time? I feel loved: and so, it made me glad that I already had typed up the first chapter by the time I posted the prologue. But, _seriously_, folks, don't expect such speedy updates _all_ the time. I am a procrastinator by default. Thus this is only me procrastinating on procrastination. Heh. But I am glad that you all like it so far. But enough of me, go read the story, kiddies.

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**The Ants Go Marching By  
****Act I: Part One  
**Recovery

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"_Memory Drive: 20% recovered. Reactivating system for further repairs._"

**P**ause: take a moment to consider the situation, if _you_ were the alien (well, technically, we're _all_ aliens, but that's another matter for another time), what would happen if _you_ woke up in this situation? Beaten, but healing, in an unknown place, with large gaps in your memory? The normal reaction would be to flip out: but take another moment, and consider this; you've woken up, and you know you're missing information. And you're in a strange place near strange people. However, they might not be strange considering that you _know_ you're missing some memories. Consider it. Are you done? Good. Moving on.

So with that strange lack of any reasonably important memories, the Irken popped up into an upright position after the initial shock to restart his body. His back was ramrod straight and his antennae were shifting and twitching erratically, taking a mixture of sound, smell, and the _taste_ of the environment he was in. The first thing he was able to determine was that the environment itself was not harmful, all though the levels of pollutants was nearing the danger point, it would not be of immediate danger to him. Optical units impaired until the five minute mark passed, and the second shock, he was still able to detect the two other _beings_—intelligent or not, he couldn't tell—from the distinct sound of two hearts beating.

_Bah-thump. Bah-thump. Bah-thump_. It was the sound of two four-chambered hearts pumping blood through the bodies they belonged to. Which, in itself, severely limited the species that the two could belong to. That left him with the option of deciding a) if the two were deadly Girshnaws from Ulkyr, or b) something from the Omega Quadrant. Deciding that he was a good deal away from the sector of the universe that contained the planet Ulkyr based on the navigational system in his PAK, the two beings were clearly from the Omega Quadrant. _But which part?_

In the approximate one minute until the second shock restarted the _use_ful functions, his detected the bitter stench of curiosity mingled with the acrid taste of fear. _D_i_sg_ust_ing f_ilt_h,_ he thought, spurred on by the distinctive memory of referring to unpleasant things that way: there was some normalcy in the blankness, there. _Or perhaps_, he reasoned, internal clock informing him that there was around thirty seconds until vocal cords and eyesight (and other, less useful things) would go back online, _this is merely an old memory, as it is first to come. Storing for further debate._

At the end of that thought, there was a stinging sensation, and then his eyes came online: the thousands upon thousands of miniscule, red lens focusing and taking in his surroundings. Giving depth and a disturbing sense of familiarity to the surrounding area, which had, moments ago, merely been a vague image made up by the movement of sound and air in the room. He got a good, long look at the two, sweating pink creatures, the revolting nature of the filth on them made apparent to his two feelers that went slack once he _saw_ them for what they were.

Steadily, his PAK was informing him of useless bits of information on the two creatures in steady, clipped Irken: _Species: Human, Intelligence: Minimal, Threat: Minimal_, and other such things such as docility, aggressiveness, and some other not-needed tidbits. While the PAK was busy telling him unwanted things, he was taking in the Humans' appearances; one of them was obviously male, and the other was obviously (or maybe not so, if he included the hostility rolling of of her) female. Related if similar scents were anything to go by, mixed with the sterile smell of a laboratory.

The male meat-creature had a preposterous stickity-up thing on top of his head, made of hair, as if an attempt to mimic the sickle-shaped thumbs of Werg. _Curiosity. Panic. Confusion._ It, he, it, he had strange, circular objects that appeared to be for vision correction—_Irkens would never have such inferior optical centers._ And _his_ (the damn PAK was constantly reminding him that Humans had distinguishable sexes) mouth was opening and closing with no sound or useful information coming out of it. The female pink-demon uttered something in a language that his PAK translated into Irken, before accessing the Language Database and uploading the appropriate software.

"It can stay, seeing as it's awake: but I'm _warning you_, it better not prove to be as _annoy_ing as yo_u_ are," the female creature had snarled out, voice stressing certain sounds in an odd, choked manner that left his antennae cocked in confusion. Then she headed up the stairs, taking her suffocating demeanor along with her, making the other Human breath a sigh of relief.

Zim—the PAK finally allowing him access to the more useful, personal information; thus allowing him to have his name once again—blinked, then took note of the _things_ sticking to him. Gauze. Bandages. A thin layer of cooling gel pressed onto his skin in some places. A muscle under his left eye twitched faintly at some hidden, logical annoyance, and then he proceeded to delicately pull the medical items off one by one. Successfully ignoring the gaping Human staring at him through those ridiculous eye-correction lenses.

"Er," the remained Human began with a simple sound that had no meaning before moving on to a much intelligent question: "Are you _o_kay?"

Well, maybe not as intelligent nor as stimulating as another species question might have been, but it was better than useless sounds. A quick run-through of the newly downloaded software on the language known as 'English', and he formulated his reply. "Z_i_m is fine, rather, I will be once my memory dr_ive_s are completely restored." The Human winced when a few of the sounds of this language conflicted with Zim's native, Irken accent, but nonetheless understood.

"That's good, um, Zim? That's your name, Zim? Huuh," the voice of the Human male was a low baritone, but still managed to be _irritating_ like a high-pitched tone (and to top it all off, he had pronounced Zim's name wrong!). Then, as if realizing some horrible thing, the Human outstretched a pink, fleshy limb, and introduced itself, "I'm Dib, and I found you in an alleyway. Near dead, to boot."

_Boot? What do boots have to do with anything?_ The Irken regarded the Human appendage with a disbelieving expression on his face; one antennae erect, the other slack and twitching faintly. He decided on ignoring the Dib's greeting, and moved on to a more pressing matter, "Do you have a shirt Z_i_m could have? This one is ruined." Superficial, but still, he pulled the pink sleeve away from his skin with his claw and thumb, displeasure evident on his face. The article of clothing was in tatters: it wasn't suitable.

_A defec_—he was pulled out of the thought suddenly when his body remembered something that he didn't, and his left leg twitched ungainly at the phantom recollection—_tive?_

Dib-Human, replied quickly that he would go get Zim a shirt, and in his haste tripped on the first stair and his face smacked into the third stair with a loud, sickening _thwack_. The Irken thought this was absolutely h_ilar_ious, and was tempted to point a claw at the clumsy oaf whilst laughing wildly. Briefly, he wondered where that came from, and almost indulged in that desire when the Dib-Human tripped for a second time before scrambling up the stairs, cheeks burning in shame.

Mind taken from the leg-spasm, instead focused on the inferior prowess of the Human, he giggled as he heard the Human rummaging around for something in the upper levels of the traditional, but still clearly custom-ordered Home™ unit. He was funny, Zim decided, in that he was trying to hard: the reason, Zim couldn't fathom. Perhaps it was because the Human was amazed by Zim? Yes, yes! _That's it, the Human called Dib is absolutely stunned by Zim. Hrmmm...? Unless he has an ulterior motive? No, no. Zim's PAK says that H_yu_mans aren't _that_ intelligent_.

The Human finally returned from the upstairs, holding a worn looking blue long sleeve, that was, by far, eight sizes too big for Zim, but seemed to be the smallest thing the Human had. The diminutive alien, now reminded of the difference in size between the two species, took the garment with a crinkled expression of utter, utter disgust. In the place where a nose could have been, it was clenched like a nose could have crinkled: the shirt smelled stale, and had a faint hint of something metallic on the sleeves.

But it didn't seem _that_ harmful, so he placed it next to him, and pulled his own shirt off. It made a tearing sound as it was pulled from it's place, tucked under his PAK, but there was little-to-no other resistance. He promptly did what was becoming a habit as the meat-child stared: he ignored, then pulled the Human garment over his head. The soft, worn, blue fabric felt odd on his skin, a little scratchy, but otherwise simply odd. Briefly, he had a flight of fancy as he wondered what he must have looked like with the oversized thing on: the opening stuck halfway down his shoulders at a slanted line, sleeves trailing farther down than his claws, and the hem stopping just before his booted feet.

That retarded as hell yellow, smile-y face on the front.

He looked like some sort of demented child!

"Hey, don't look at me like that," Dib interrupted his thoughts, clearly interpreting his look of rage as a look of rage, "It's not my fault you're tiny."

One antennae twitched, his crimson colored eyes narrowed, the clear, first of three eyelids closed, while the outer, fleshy ones crept lower. The alien sneered at the Human's words, something about them striking deep and true in his squeedlyspooch. Lips pulled back, he hissed, "Well ex-_cuse_ _me_, it's not my fault that your f_il_thy head is bigger than Z_im_."

Dib was about to reply in a whiny, prepubescent tone, that his head was _not_ that big compared to anyone else's, when there was a rather loud chime, followed by the PAK's metallic voice, "_Memory Drive: 25% recovered._" Apparently, the Irken device intended to keep them informed on its progress every five percents or so. _That_ would get annoying real quick-like. Even the alien was annoyed by this, despite the fact that he was _essentially_ the PAK. He was allowed to irritated with himself. Because he was _Zim_—and Zim could however he wanted about himself.

"Well, uh, uhm," Why did Humans lack basic language functions at the strangest times? He would have to work on the Dib's ability to articulate more like an intelligent being, instead of a growing smeetie, "I'm going to go back to watching cartoons, so you can, erm, join me or get book of the bookshelf or... whatever it is Irkens do for fun." _Fun?_ Fun consisted of torture, popping digits out of place, mutating things, and other such nasty things. Buildings weapons of DOOM™. That sort of thing. But right now the bookshelf sounded more interesting.

He pondered the uselessness of storing information on flimsy paper, in between stronger paper, then putting it to collect dust on metal shelves, while simultaneously scanning the titles of the 'books'. Easily, he dismissed the ones with titles starting with a word that started with a 'V', and ended with an 'e'. Also, he ignored the colorful ones full of pictures of a super-human running around with his panties on wrong. Ultimately, Zim chose a large, hardback book entitled _The Imponderables: The Answers to Humanity's Most Perplexing Questions_. Mostly because it was on the lowest shelf.

Balancing the heavy, yellow book on the smooth expanse of skull between his antennae, he clambered back onto the couch next to the Dib-Human, and propped the on his legs. Flipping through the contents with more force the necessary (resulting in the stupid paper ripping), he examined the book with a scoff. _'Why do dogs have wet noses?' 'Why do clocks run clockwise?' Bah! No wonder the H_yu_mans are so.. so. So. So. They're using what little brain capacity they have to ponder such _useless_ things. Ugh. Morons. No wonder it was a millennium later than most of the Universe that they _finally_ traveled to another planet in their _own damn _solar system._

With a dismissive gesture, Zim tossed the book to the ground, and decided to watch the cartoons along with the Human. At the very least _those_ seemed to have a high rate of violence: because, currently, there was some idiot creature attempting to blow up a moon—perhaps it was a planet, Zim wasn't so sure as the animation was all fuzzy and messy. The words were jittery and choppy, making the only worth while thing about the damnable 'cartoon' the ending exploSION that sent the Irken into a subdued fit of giggles at a look from the Dib.

Then, as suddenly as she had gone, the oppressive she-demon-Human was back, glaring daggers at the Dib-Human. Her voice was noticeably devoid of any emotion except pure, utter loathing, as she snapped, "Dad's coming home because it's Pizza Night; good luck explaining the little green freak." The little, green freak didn't have time to reply as the devil-child vanished as quickly as she had appeared, leaving behind a cold, stiff atmosphere in return.

It took a moment for the other Human to process this information before exclaiming loudly and smacking himself at his own stupidity, "Ah, _shit_! I forgot about Dad, _dammit._ This is gonna be hard to explain, um, huh. If he asks, you're a visiting pen pal from another School™ on Koton-5, alright, Zim?"

"Is your," the Irken paused to search for the right words, "Parental unit as scary as your sister unit?"

"Huh? What? No, Dad's not... _scary_ like Gaz. He's just a bit, racist, I guess. Thinks Humans are... better than any other race. Which isn't true, not at all, so uh, you're a foreign kid," Dib was sheepish, and had started squirming uncomfortably halfway through the explanation, and had started to leak from his forehead, "A-anyways, he probably won't accept that you're an alien. Dad'll find his own way to deny it. Somehow."

Zim's imaginary brow lowered at the idiocy behind that statement, that way of thought, and was blunt and a standard-issued form of rude when he replied, "Your Parental unit is a dumbass."

"I- yeah. Yes, he is," the Dib agreed, however reluctant it was. He agreed. Zim saved this for further use and inquiry. Humans were, according to the PAK, family-oriented creatures because of some finicky emotional attachment. So, that one would intentionally insult a member of its family unit made the Irken pause for a brief moment, before idly shaking his head at the dumbassed-ness of Humans.

"S_o-o-o-o_," he dragged out the one-syllable word into a furthering four-syllables to mock the Human's horrible speech patterns, "When will your Parental unit be here?"

Dib glanced at the clock on the wall, before replying, voice filled with a creeping dread, "About fifteen minutes."

And so, the feared waiting began.

It wasn't so much feared, as annoying; the Irken had decided, ultimately, that he would be better off taking each book off of the bookshelf one by one, and then he would throw them into a heap on the ground. Some rather, _expensive_, rare books ended up torn or bent up in the process, but it wasn't like the books were there for any other reason except to look good (some time in the future, Dib would come to regret allowing the Irken to do this, as there was a sentence in one of those books that would have led him to discover the cure for a deadly, flesh-eating virus).

He had just stopped the alien from tearing out the pages of one book in particular, that his 'parental unit' swept into the room, the white lab coat trailing on the floor. Professor Membrane was in his full, regulatory lab gear, and was staring down at his son holding a squirming, green child away from a pile of books—the green child was busy making gimme motions with his hands towards the books, and was protesting in some clicking, gurgling language.

Just moments after the Professor stepped through the door, garnering the sudden attention of the wriggling alien, the pizza, delivery boy arrived with an extra-large Super Pizza™. Wordlessly, the wide-eyed scarred face of the teenage delivery boy, started twitching as he accepted the money. Hands shaking and a gathering of insane laughter in his throat, the pizza boy returned to his delivery truck to go run himself into a plastic tree.

"Son, who's this?" the Professor asked, pleased to note that Gaz had come out of hiding, and had snatched the pizza box, taking it into the dining area, "Will your foreign friend be joining us for dinner?"

Dib gave his dad a look like he was crazy, but answered by leading Zim into the dining room and helping the alien to a chair despite the alien's protests. He then went and fetched two sodas —one Poop brand, the other an Irken brand cola—offering the latter to the Irken, who accepted it with nothing more than a tentative flick of the right antennae. Because he was busy determining why the Humans were going crazy over the horrendous thing known as pizza. As far as he could tell, the food held no nutritional value to the fleshy creatures, nor did it even _look_ appealing. Discrediting the fact that his sense of smell was superior to the Human's, even the smell was awful.

There was nothing about the food that even sparked a desire to eat in the Irken: merely the feeling, sensation, of wanting to wretch. It was nothing more the a slab of greasy, sloppy cheese, covered in disks of _meat_ and some mushy things that might have once been vegetables in the course of their existence, over a layer of slushy blood, on cardboard. And how the Humans' were just digging into the food with the ferocity of wild animals only added to the keeping of his hands. Zim settled with popping open his soda, and guzzling down the delicious, fizzy drink. He particularly enjoyed the way it made his squeedlyspooch gurgle appreciatively as the bubbly fluid encouraged it to start working.

He silently observed the Humans' feeding frenzy, mildly finding things to compare it to: sharks, hyenas, Werbs, Queerans, and other such equally disgusting beasts. His feelers flattened against his head as a splash of grease almost _landed on him_. Disturbed, he took another sip of the Irken cola, finding it just as pleasant as the last one, when he realized the parental unit had fixated his obscured gaze upon Zim. Then the older, but not _older_ than Zim, Human asked, "Have you eaten any Pizza?"

"Yes, Z_im_ has had his fill of the d_is_—_de_lightful pizza," eyes narrowed and voice holding a controlled, fake cheer to it, as he gestured to the crumbs that had been scattered across the table and onto his plate. Did he mention that Human feeding habits were disgusting? Yes? Well, allow him to reiterate: Human feedings habit were utterly _revolting_.

The pizza was gone in a matter of twenty minutes, and the parental unit had also left to return to his work. This left Zim as perplexed as he had been when the Dib had insulted the Professor: where was the loving, family unit that his PAK had described Humans as valuing? Shaking his head at the simple dysfunction in Human values, he downed the rest of his soda and paused at the slight, burning sensation the carbonated drink left in his throat. Not the burn of water, but the burn of too much at once. Nothing bad, and from the corner of his narrowed eyes, he could see the female Gaz retreating back upstairs. He would figure out the purpose of her exclusion soon. Yes, he would; a plan already forming in his mind.

"_Oh_," Dib gasped, suddenly, seeing the clock, "It's already ten-thirty? I better get to bed, there's School™ tomorrow, er, you should stay in my room, Zim. Less chance of Gaz trying to murder you, or Dad trying to 'cure' you."

Zim followed the meat-child up the stairs, paying more attention to the lack of lived-in-ness of the Home™, rather than the fact that the stairs creaked and the stale odor of Human byproducts. There were three doors on the upper level: an slightly open one that had an ominous, flickering glow coming from it, an open one that lead to a bathroom, and the one that belonged to Dib. The Dib's room was full of lowly Human technology, a desk full of computers, and other things. There was even a dismantled, lonely Robo-Aide in a shadowy corner. Posters of various things (mostly science related) were stuck over the wall, including photos of Dib with Gaz when the two were younger.

In a spurt of speed that the Human could not have been expecting, the alien had clambered on to of the bed pressed against the wall, small in comparison to the expanse of blue sheets. Dib blinked when he realized that the alien had claimed _his_ bed, he was about give the green critter a piece of his mind, when he was interrupted by the Irken saying, "Z_im_ is not going to spend the hours of night on the dirty floor, or in a chair."

"Fine," he sighed, and got into his jammies and shooed the alien to the foot of the bed, getting comfortable in the silky sheets. He had just about fallen asleep after figuring he might as well just consider the alien a cat, to get the weird, mental pictures out of his head, when there was a sound. High pitched, and drawn out, he shot up, alert for the source—trying to figure out if it had come from outside, or if it was another computer malfunction. In the end, he looked at the Irken, sitting innocently, _too_ innocently, at the edge of the bed, feelers wriggling in barely contained amusement.

It was going to be a _long_ night, Dib realized as he fell back onto his pillow with a groan.

* * *

**A/N: **I had figured I would try out the chapter from a Zim's perspective (sorta, kinda, whatever), and am pleasantly surprised at the result. I can only hope you are as well. Hehehehe. Fun fact: while writing this, the term "dumbassed-ness" had that stupid spell check line under it, so I decided to check it out. The word the computer wanted it to be was "Dumbledore-ness". Which, I suppose, is the same thing. But, well, whatever. Computers are weird.

Thank you for reading, I hope it's as fun for you as it is for me. (:


	3. Act I: Part Two

**disclaimer:** If I owned _Invader Zim_, there would be new episodes on Youtube. ;D  
**warnings: **language.

**A/N:** School started and chiz. Rewrote this five times, and decided to go with the least crappy of them. It's still not as great as I intended, but gotta hint at a plot, don't I? (; Enjoy! and sorry it took so long, a better explanation at the bottom notes.

* * *

**The Ants Go Marching By  
Act I: Part Two  
**Witty, Pretty, and Ditsy

* * *

**T**oday, self-proclaimed boy-wonder, Dib Membrane's morning differed than the usual affair of being threatened, watching the news, and heading off to School™. Namely because of one, little menace that made it his purpose in life to keep him _awake_ all night long, with high-pitched, annoying sounds, and ridiculous questions like, "Why _is_ your parental unit so stupid?" "Why are you stupid?" "What's with all the computers?" "Why do h_yu_mans like pizza?" And other such, _evil_ questions, to which the reply was always a loud, angry "SHUT UP, DAMMIT!" Which should have brought his sister running with a rusty utensil, but somehow, by some miraculous event, she didn't. He thanked a higher power, preferably one that actually _liked_ him and would continue his luck, and returned to trying to sleep through the constant, grating voice of the alien.

He had gotten only an hour, a measly little hour, of actual sleep, mostly because the annoying Irken had started tinkering with the 'inferior human technology', and had subsequently hacked into the Professor's database. Not that Dib even knew that had happened, but he suspected something happened after a little, green bastard jumping on top of him in the middle of his much needed beauty sleep with a maniacal glint in those red eyes. He got mad, irritable, much more than the average man without his nappy time. So it was with a heavy heart that he got out of bed an hour earlier than he was used to, just to sate the Irken, who had pleasantly informed him that his memory drives were up to thirty percent restored, yay!

Dib stood in front of the mirror, inspecting the dark smudges under his eyes from the sleepless night, and was thankful that, for whatever reason, Zim hadn't followed him into the bathroom. Looking at his own, haggard appearance, he began to realize that he hadn't really thought this whole thing through to the end. If Zim didn't know who his attackers were, or even that he had been attacked (which seemed correct at the moment, since there hadn't been a fit of rage, or _anything_ for that matter); which meant there would be no revenge, and in turn, no gratitude towards Dib. Which, in the end, meant no Irken technology.

And there was no way he was going to be as stupid as the guy behind the 23/13 incident. No way in _hell_.

But that, really, really didn't explain how he had ended up with an Irken in his backpack. It really didn't.

What _did_ explain it, but not in the way that would have pleased any self-respecting teacher in this day and age, would be the truth, and the truth wasn't something Dib wanted to share right now. Especially considering there was no reason for Zim to be in his backpack, doing God knows what, while he had to sit through the inane drivel coming out of his Ancient Earthen Histories class teacher. Then again, while this was a **bad** situation, there was still a worse one if he hadn't condoned the Irken curling up next to his notebooks and lunch. Total destruction—that's what Zim had promised, in more words than that, and it would befall Dib's Home™. Frankly, Dib didn't want a dead home.

He would get in trouble, but not as much if security discovered that he had smuggled an alien into School™. After several moments of weighing the pros and cons of either choice, he had ended up going with letting the Irken stowaway in his backpack. Which was suddenly becoming a _very_, _very_ bad idea as the class continued on (it was only the first of the day, so it was alright to feel his stomach sinking).

_Skrttchh. Skrttchh. _"—and the Native Americans, better remembered as mostly the Cherokee people, were forced down a dismal, dank hole—" _Skrttchh. Skrttchh._ "—known as the Trail of Tears, where the 'superior' white man lead hundreds to their slaughter, invited disease, and left families and tribes torn apart. Now—" _Skrttchh. Skrttchh. Skrttchh. _"—What the _hell_ is that noise?"

Mr. Scar (legit, something Dib couldn't believe, but then again, his last name was _Membrane_), looked around the room with his face scrunched up like he had to go take a dump. The bulky, muscular teacher—who was a former Securer—walked up and down the rows, glancing at every student, and every bag. He even kicked a few, and Dib was terrified that his bag would be one of the ones kicked, and the Irken would get mad, and then his teacher would be royally _fucked_.

_Skrttchh. Skrttchhh._

"Mister Membrane," Scar said smoothly, staring down at the adolescent, smile growing crueler by the moment.

In some ways, Scar was worse than Bitters had been. Dib took a deep breath, and sighed, "Yes, Mr. Scar, sir?"

"Why," the teacher paused for dramatic effect, clearly reveling in the power he had over his students, "Is your backpack making sounds?"

"Because my dad asked me to drop off an unnamed experiment off at his lab right after school, and I didn't know it would make sounds, so I kept it in my bag—" Ultimately, his quickly thought up, and surprisingly good excuse was interrupted by Scar's honed Securer mentality.

Scar yanked up the bag by a strap, and violently shook it—making a rattling, thumping sound as something, or some_one_, was given the equivalent of a small scale earthquake. Audibly gulping, Dib prayed that by some power, he would get out of this. And he wouldn't be the inadvertent cause for a man's death. _Please. Please. Please, oh, please_—_he'll haunt me until I go to _my_ grave_. _Please._ In reply, the backpack only continued on with the _skrttchh_ing.

With a sudden glee that only a sadist could have, and a smile to match, the former Securer ripped open the bag, ignoring the fact that the thing had zippers. His expression was worthwhile; stunned, mouth opening and closing at his confusion, and then, the best part: the bag was set back down, and a small, crushed TevoBook™ was pulled out. It had a cracked screen and was the source of the annoying sound; little sparks were made where the electrical current had been disrupted.

But Dib wasn't concerned with that—_where's Zim? _There were several possibilities, one of which was that the Irken had run off at some point, or that for some reason, Zim's PAK had a Cloaking feature. Except that, PAKs didn't come already installed with one of those, ever since the Irken Revolution. Dib mulled over that fact while Scar tossed the broken electronic down the garbage chute. _Then again,_ he rationalized, _there's a lot that no one knows about Irkens. Despite the Revolution._

After class ended, with only a twenty page essay due after the weekend, Dib decided to skip Study Hall, and hid away in the bathroom. He waited until there was no one left, and cautiously opened the bag, expecting to see nothing but his packed lunch, and a Calculus book. Instead, he was mildly surprised to see that the Irken was there, staring back at him with an unimpressed look on his face. Marveling at how the tiny alien could fit in the backpack, much less survive the mini-quake he had suffered at the hands of Scar, he was surprised when Zim slapped him.

Cheek stinging, certain that if there hadn't been gloves on the alien's clawed hands he would be bleeding, he stared wide-eyed as the alien started to rant and rave in a sharp, bitter tone, "How _dare_ you let that—that—_filthy_ being do that to Zim! _You_ should have prevented Zim from having to go through that indignity! _I_ have every right to go and rip that monkey's guts out, and **eat** his spleen!"

"Except, you won't," Dib tried, pressing a hand to his tender cheek, and winced when that made the sensation worse.

The Irken whipped around and stared at him with a cold expression, before replying, voice lacking the rage from before, "No. I won't. Because Humans are made of _meat_."

Not understanding the whole _meat_ comment, Dib continued on, grateful that no one would be killing anyone, "Well, I'm glad—"

"Stupid _boy_, Zim meant he wouldn't eat the monkey's spleen. I'll still kill the fool," Zim said blandly, as if it were an everyday statement for him; and for all they knew, it might have been. Really, the bland tone could have meant anything; that Zim really, truly didn't care, that maybe he did and was hiding it, or that it was something better said without rage. But it did make Dib understand that he was serious about killing Scar. Dead serious. Pun intended.

Tentative, and fully aware that he was dealing with a volatile, if not bipolar, individual, he started off in an emotionless tone, "You don't want to do that, Zim; you didn't see him. He was twice as big as me, and he was a _Securer_—" Zim's antennae visibly twitched, and his posture straightened uncomfortably, "—so he knows how to deal with most species. Even if you do kill him, he'll still hurt you too. What if he damages your PAK? That might make the memories that haven't been recovered not come back at all, and won't that be horrible?"

Confident in his ability as a diplomat, but not so confident on what would happen with an Irken, Dib gauged Zim's response carefully. The alien growled unpleasantly, feelers pressed flat against his skull, and compound eyes narrowed dangerously. His upper lip had pulled back to show off the interlocking teeth, and finally he hissed, "Zim will deal with the monkey when Zim's memory drives are fully restored."

"Alright, I can live with that, I guess," he forgot all about the broken electronic and how that had come about, instead more concerned with any more close situations and decided, ultimately to say, "I'm going to cut School™, so get back in my bag," and then, as an after thought, he added, "Please."

The alien complied, but not before saying darkly, just as Dib was zipping the bag shut, "If Zim gets harmed, _you_ _will suffer a fate worse than that monkey._" Unconsciously shivering, he hoisted the surprisingly light backpack onto his shoulder, and crept out the bathroom. He glanced around, triple-checking to make sure there were no drones nearby, and slunk back in, heading for the vents. It would be better to go through the uncomfortable way, than risk being caught with Zim in his backpack. Taking a deep breath, fiddled with the grate, giving a relieved sigh as the metal popped off.

Carefully he took his backpacked and pushed it into the vent, before crawling in after and sealing the way behind. Palms clammy and forehead scrunched in focused, he tried to remember the exact way out, but couldn't at first; then it came back to him, and he navigated through the dark, slightly damp, but cool metal tunnels. Pushing the backpack lightly so that the alien wouldn't be jostled, and being much more gentle than he should have been: keeping the previous threat in mind. Finally, after minutes of horrifying anticipation of a metallic voice shrieking that he was _under arrest_, Dib came to the one vent that lead to the outside.

Feet firmly on the ground, bag on his back, he tore down the streets to the , not willing to let the Irken out until he was a good deal away from the wretched place. Slipping into an alleyway, not caring if anyone saw him, because, _really_. No one cared, or would think twice about it if they had seen. People were idiots, after all. He let the Irken out with wariness, concerned that the last leg of the journey had pissed Zim off, but found that the alien only looked bored.

"Take Zim to a place where they sell sweeties," confident, and demanding, the alien stared Dib down, even though he was much, much shorter. It was amusing, but he didn't dare laugh.

Shrugging, Dib lead the way down the streets towards the nearest confectionery shop—according to the laughable amount of guides located around the damn place—carefully keeping up a level of inane, useless chatter. What did Zim remember? And other things, that were entirely unproductive, as the Irken refused to answer the first, and only gave ambiguous answers to the rest. It was an entirely mundane journey to the sweets shop, but it was amusing to watch the Irken stare, unabashed, at all the '_delicious sweeties_!' It was not amusing, however, when Zim made Dib spend a good, solid fifty dollars on _Terratep Pops_.

_Terratep Pops._

Zim, happy with his delicious, expensive munchies, was all too happy to agree with returning to the Membrane residence for the suggested cartoons and violent video games. He trailed behind Dib, only just so, popping the brightly colored, hard candies shaped like mutated rats into his mouth and crunching loudly. Unconcerned with the other citizens of the City™, leaving it up to Dib to keep a look out for Vortians, Meekrob, and other species that had a grudge against Irkens, for obvious reasons or not. Having noticed only two Irkens—both taller than Zim—up ahead, he figured it was okay to keep going.

Oh, how **wrong** he had been.

Passing by the two Irkens, it was all fine and dandy until Zim looked up from his candies, eyes suddenly wide, and then the purple-eyed Irken suddenly screeched, "_Zim_!"

The reaction was immediate; Zim froze, dropped his bag of candy, feelers going completely, utterly limp on his head. His eyes widened beyond what should have been physically possible, and he uttered out in a defeated, stricken tone, "T-Taller Tak, and Taller Miyuki." He gave a short bow to each of them, but it was stiff and painful to watch. 'Taller' Tak wasn't much taller than Zim, but she _did_ have a few inches on the tiny Irken. But Taller Miyuki was definitely _tall_ for an Irken; she was nearly Dib's height. Nearly.

Tak looked between Dib and Zim, then glancing down at the candy, before sneering, "Oh! If it isn't the _almighty_ Zim, how's life treating you? Got a slave, have you?" When Zim didn't reply, choosing to remain silent, giving one, quick almost pleading glance toward the indigo-eyed Miyuki, she chose another tactic, "Or is it the opposite? Have you become a _gro_—"

Apparently, whatever the female Irken had been about to say was something offensive, because Miyuki looked horrified, and Zim had screeched—and the proceeded to rage in sharp, high-pitched clicks. In turn, Tak responded in an equally sharp clicks, until they were both purple in the face. The other Irken, finding that enough was enough, had stepped in, pulling Tak away from the screaming match with one, simple statement in a smooth, pretty voice, "Now, now. Be the Taller Irken, Tak, and apologize."

She huffed angrily, and snapped, "Never. _He_ should be apologizing to _me_. Hell! He should be _begging for forgiveness._"

"Mandate Twelve, in the _'Revised' Irken Vows_, states that 'all Irkens, regardless of Height, will be treated as equals in the concerns of punishment, politeness, and crime. One will treat another as if all were the same Height. And any insult towards Height should only be done if the Irken in question is marked as one who was done serious wrongs against the _Vows_'. Which, as you know, Zim has not done," came Miyuki's chill, level tone, eyes never leaving Tak's.

Tak snarled in return, "Not openly, that is."

Eyes narrowed, Zim snapped in return, chest swelling with confidence and emphasis, "Zim'll do what _Zim_ wants."

"See! That's like _admitting_—"

"_Tak_," the female Irken's voice, full to the brim with strictness and the severity of the situation, making the purple-eyed Irken cow instantly. Feelers slack and expression blank, devoid of any and all emotion. Tak turned solemnly towards Zim, bowed her head slightly, and apologized. Then, action done and over with, she walked away with an angry half-snarl. Miyuki shook her head, and spoke to Zim, "I'm truly sorry for what Tak was about to say, and what she _did_ say. While I wish I could say that she didn't mean it, I fear that that would be an outright lie. All I can do, in return, is determine if that is untrue and offer to you a favor if it is so."

Bright, scarlet eyes narrowed, Zim replied carefully, ignoring Dib, clearly unconcerned that the Human didn't follow anything that had just happened, "Zim would never lower himself to being a _groog._ And in return for that _offense_, Zim asks only that he be excused from his tasks at the Center, as I am recovering from an _incident_," satisfied that his point had been made, he bowed his head with more respect than had been in his original bow, and walked away, "Coming, Dib-Human?"

"Uh," Dib had to spring to catch up to the Irken, because he had been to busy staring slack-jawed at Miyuki as she had _agreed_ to do what Zim asked, "What was that all about?" He was starting to realize how little he, and those _experts_, knew about Irken society; after all, it wasn't supposed to be height-oriented still, but it _was_. His head was starting to pound as he tried to work that conundrum out.

"Nothing you need be concerned with, Dib-thing," the alien remarked, and munched on a candy from the bag he had rescued conveniently upon leaving, something Dib hadn't noticed before. And no matter what attempt Dib made, the Irken was steadfast in not answering the question, not even when they arrived safely back at the Membrane residence.

* * *

**S**taring at the door for the fifth minute, the dumbstruck Human stepped to the side to let Miyuki in, sending a cautious glance towards Zim, who was focused firmly on the television. Confused, he greeted the female Irken as pleasantly as possible, before offering to get her a drink or a snack. She politely refused, and Dib just had to ask, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to learn what the 'incident' Zim mentioned was," Miyuki replied, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her dress, and continued on, "Simple curiosity, only."

Dib stood in the sidelines to watch the following events, curiosity as to whether the Irken remembered anything or not, and hope that he could learn something interesting from the event. He watched as Miyuki approached Zim like he was a dangerous individual, but there _was_ a faint hint of respect hidden in her indigo eyes. When Zim noticed her, he stammered something in Irken, then stood up with a deep, flourished bow. "There's no need for that Zim; I'm here as a friend, nothing more—but I would like to know what sort of incident made you want to take time off."

Eyes narrowed, skeptical, and mouth drawn in a thin, tight line, he sat back down. His brow creased as he thought, and his legs were crossed as he stated, simply, "I don't remember. But I'm sure there's a good reason why the memory drives in my PAK aren't fully recovered."

"Perhaps it has to do with your search?" It was a simple question, but it set Zim off—at first, he was calm, but then he started laughing; it was a hollow sounding thing. He laughed for a solid three minutes, before trailing of into silence. But that was only the calm before the figurative storm. He stood up on the couch, antennae stiff with anger, and let out a hair-raising screech. Pointing one claw at Miyuki, Zim uttered something in Irken that made her stare in rapt fascination, before interrupting the wailing, "Zim! I did not mean that you had to stop—"

"_Never_! Never; I'll never give up, you can't _make me_!" Zim snarled, face twisted up in anger, tiny hands curled up into shaking fists. His eyes were narrowed darkly as glared at Miyuki.

The taller Irken loomed over Zim, her expression stern and motherly (if the term could be applied to an Irken, at all), "Zim! Cease this at once! I did not ask you to stop your search, I simply thought that it might be the reason your memories are missing, that's all."

"No one would want to stop Zim, there's no harm in what Zim does," he grumbled face still distorted with strong emotion.

"The Tallest would surely want to stop you; maybe even the— if they knew just what you know."

The alien snorted, partially in disbelief, and mostly in arrogance, "They wouldn't care; they probably forgot. Even the Tallest won't mind, those two would be _glad_ that Zim will leave if he finds it."

"Red and Purple _might_ be glad that you've gone, but they won't be happy when they find out _where_," Miyuki reminded, carefully, knowing just what Dib knew; that some part of Zim wasn't right in the head (but that's an obvious fact), "If _Tak_ is mad for what you're doing, imagine their reaction."

Zim didn't reply to that, instead he sat down and pouted, eyes wide, with a hand pressed to his forehead as he eased his headache. He sighed, and gestured that he was _done_ and done with the conversation. The other Irken simply said her goodbyes, and thanked Dib for the time before leaving the home. Curious and a little disturbed by what had happened—why was Zim so mad at his 'search' being mentioned?—Dib wandered over and sat on the couch next to the alien.

Cautious, just as Miyuki had been, Dib asked, "What _is_ your 'search'?"

"None of your business, _Dib_," the Irken snarled, "_I_ am going to sleep." Zim stood and headed for the stairs, posture straight and tense.

"I thought Irkens didn't sleep," he commented, remembering how Zim hadn't slept last night, at all.

Zim glanced back and hissed, "You **thought** wrong."

* * *

**A/N:** Ehhh. Yeah. Kinda random, kinda not as good as previous, but meh. We all have our bad "days", in this case, chapter. (; Hahahaha. Okay, I had a bucket load of projects from my teachers, who thought it was a superduper idea on the first week. Totally. Yeah. Think that, mmm. Ahahha ha.

Okay, in return for the lateness I've also started a oneshot that I'll post in a couple days under the name _Memento Vivre_. And I'll be nice, and give you a sneak peak, as in the summary: "Dib Membrane had lived an ordinary life; with two kids, a dog, and a precautionary wife. And it was all going according to plan—until Dib Membrane fell in love with another man."

Also, I'm obligated to say this (just once, though): "By reading and/or commenting on this story, you are supporting the **God Save the Invader Zim Fanfic** movement. Thank you. (:"


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